What Fresh Hell
by Grey Silverstone
Summary: 'Right. Molly stood outside the door hands balled into fists at her sides. Today. Right now. Right. She'd do it. Coffee. She'd do her best to forget the last time.' You remember the little coffee quibble? Molly grows a pair. And cue dramedy! Oneshot. R


**disclaimer- **bbc, acd, and mr. moffy... I believe that is all. *want*

Right, so, this has been bothering me for _quite _some time. I think Molly needs to do _something _about Sherlock, especially after that dreadful coffee bit. *eyebrow waggle*

And so, she does.

Oneshot, for now. Possibly continued, if desired.

R&R for mental delivery of sweets!

GS

(xx- molly's pov. xy- sher's)

* * *

**xx**

Right. Right. _Breathe._

Molly stood outside the door, hands balled into fists at her sides.

Today. Right now. Right. She'd do it. _Coffee. Coffee_. She'd do her best to forget the _last _time…

The door swung open.

Sherlock barreled out, a torrent of words streaming back behind him to, most probably, John. "There's no way he _wouldn't _have bled out from a wound like that. They moved him. It was the brother—oh."

He looked down at the girl in his path. Molly felt her cheeks flame up. She opened her mouth, to speak, to say something—! And shut it. And opened it again. And shut it. Repeat.

He squinted disdainfully back at her. "Problem?"

"No—" _Yes_. "I just wanted—" _To jump your bones._ "To talk to you—" _Clearly. _"—?" _You moron. _

She wasn't sure if her subconscious meant that last bit for her, or for the man staring at her. His eyes, those stupid, _ghastly _eyes. Since when were they so blue?

"About?" He was getting impatient; his fingers dug into his pockets, drumming against his legs.

"Ah… er…"

"Hi, Molly. Sorry," John said hastily, stepping around them. "I'll leave you to two it, then." He walked past them. Molly watched Sherlock's eyes track him down the hall, clearly wanting to follow, wanting to get on with things.

"Molly, I've really got to go—"

"Coffee!" she squeaked, and clamped her lips shut immediately. She closed her eyes as well, to avoid that cold, cutting stare, and, hopefully, to think of a halfway-coherent way to save herself. "Do you remember… when I asked… urgh."

"Are you alright?" Did he sound a bit nervous? She couldn't risk a peep. "You're babbling. You sound a bit ill. You should really get that checked—"

He tried to step around her.

"Wait. Really." She sighed. "I'm an idiot."

"I wouldn't worry about it," he said gently. "Almost everybody is."

"No, you twat." She sighed again, only, this time, it, most probably, conveyed how aggravated she actually was.

"I'm sorry?" Offended. This, she could deal with.

"You. Twat," she said more clearly, opening her eyes and staring calmly at him. He saw calm; inside, she'd passed out. Completely. Catatonic. And. Unresponsive. She'd turned to mush. And mush had no feelings. Mush couldn't get crushed, _again_, by the one man who she could never, _ever _have a single goddamned coversation with.

"I… have been trying. For _weeks_. To ask you out. On a _date,_" she stressed, just in case he decided to deliberately misread her. Again. "And _every time_, you read it completely incorrectly. I _know _what you do, Sherlock. You do it on _purpose_!" And now she was jabbing him in the chest with a bony, steely-tipped finger, trying to drive home every word. "And it. Is. _Not_. _Nice_." _Lost your steam there, a bit, Molls. _

And that was because Sherlock was looking at her blankly, as blankly as he had when she'd stormed out of the lab in a huff after the arse called her boyfriend gay (a boyfriend she still, mysteriously, had not heard from). The same dazed, confused, complete lack of understanding made him look vulnerable. _Adorable_, the traitorous part of her brain supplied, the fluffy, pink part that tended to lead to mortification. _Incredibly huggable. Kissable. F—_She cut it off there.

"Not nice? I was _trying _to save your time and effort, and—a date?" Now he looked positively flabbered. She could have kissed him. Well, she would've liked to, from the beginning of the conversations. But _she _had the nerve to be politically correct. Shame, shame.

**xy**

"It's my bloody time," she muttered, glaring at him. "And, _yes_. A date. As in, one where two people go out, have a nice time, maybe sh—stroll in the park afterwards. Talk. _Socialize. _Make. Bloody. Nice." She was poking again; why was she poking?

Talk. Socialize. Right. Like a friendship. And he was friends with Molly. Almost. Wasn't he? They spoke on a regular basis. Communicated. He knew her cat's name.

Well. They were acquaintances, at the very least.

But when John went on a date… didn't he go for—"Oh."

Molly rolled her eyes. She was wearing an interesting amount of mascara; it was like she was trying to cover something. A crying jag, perhaps? No, no bags under the eyes. But reddened corners… Too little sleep, but for enjoyable reasons. Reading. Playing with Toby. He refused to think of other possibilities.

"Yes, Sherlock," she said scathingly, eyes wide and patronizing. "A. Daaaate."

"I… wasn't aware—"

"You're a bloody liar."

"No, I—"

"Yes, you are."

"I—"

"No _excuses_, Sherlock Holmes! It is _not _that hard to answer!"

"_Alright_!"

"I _said—_Sorry, what was that?" Molly's mouth dropped open a bit. It really wasn't that small; why had he said that? It was a perfectly normal mouth. It was Molly's mouth. Why was he thinking about Molly's mouth?

Did it look a bit swollen? What caused swollen lips? An allergy, surely. Or that idiotic lip-plumping garbage.

He refused to think of other possibilities.

"Alright. Yes. Fine."

He took advantage of her silence to step around her. John had gone; where had John gone? He hadn't told him the location. And if they were going to catch the brother, they had to go before the girlfriend got back, otherwise one or more of the terriers were going to die. And, really. Too much mess.

"Wait, Sherlock. What do you mean, 'alright?'"

"I'll text you about it," he called back over his shoulder.

"About _what_," she snapped back. He could picture the quirk her lip got when she was angry. He turned halfway, saw it, and smiled.

"About our 'date,'" he answered flippantly, pushing open the door. He winked because he could. And then he was gone.

**xx**

_Our 'date.'_

What.

In.

Hell.

Molly stood still for a long moment, blinking quickly, trying to figure out what, exactly, had just happened. A date. With Sherlock Holmes?

No. _No_.

She'd stopped him to tell him she _wasn't _interested_, _that she _no longer _saw the damn point. Not… _What_?

Something between her stomach and her heart jolted a little as her phone buzzed once, twice. She opened it.

_Tomorrow. 7h, outside S. Barts. _

_Our 'date.'_

_SH_

Well. She shut the phone and slid it slowly back into her pocket.

Alright, then.

* * *

Heeheeheeheee... I love them all so much, it's not even plausible. XD

R&R .

It makes me happy-dance. :)

**A note...**

Um... I'm continuing. I'm doubting, but I'm continuing. _...Is This?, What Fresh Hell Pt. II_!

I'm thinking I may regret this. ^^

LTT,

GS

PS, If you've already seen it, sorry for the unintentional spamming!

PPS, Thank yooooooooouuuuuu!


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